


If we can't have it all

by shinobi93



Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2 - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Blood, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/pseuds/shinobi93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal grew up with the city in his veins, learning its secrets and the way blood runs on its pavements. Slipping into the space his father’s death left at twenty four was just the next step up, but power comes at a price and his violent shadow can't protect him forever.</p><p>A near-future gangster AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If we can't have it all

**Author's Note:**

> This may be utterly ridiculous, but I thought I'd post it anyway. The idea came from a discussion with alichay about Poins being more dark and protective, which obviously meant I had to go away and write it. I can't help but write these two.
> 
> Warnings for violence (about the amount you'd imagine from a gangster fic, but not too graphic), blood, multiple character deaths, alcohol drinking, mention of drugs and offensive slurs (if you think I should warn for anything else, please let me know).

**_“We know when to kiss,_  
** **_And we know when to kill,_**  
 ** _If we can’t have it all,_**  
 ** _Then nobody will”_**  
 ** _Garbage,_ ‘The World Is Not Enough’**

 

**Prologue**

‘See what they’ve been forced to,’ mutters Henry as he gazes out the window, watching bright rubbish scurry down the grey street in the wind. His wife looks up at him apprehensively from the sofa. She hates these days, when Henry is waiting for a phone call or a knock at the door: he’s restless, introspective, and neither suit him. Beside her, her young son sits drawing a picture with felt tip pens. Henry had made him turn off the TV, claiming the noise was giving him a headache. She doesn’t want to ask her son what he’s drawing: last time, it was a boy being punched in the face, blood spurting everywhere until he got red pen on the carpet. At three years old, he’s already learning too much from his environment.

Her other son cries from upstairs. She hurriess to quieten the baby and when she returns, Henry is sitting next to his son, looking down at the scrawl of colour with feigned interest.

‘Little Hal, what do you want to be when you grow up?’ he asks. The boy doesn’t even look up.

‘Just like you,’ he chants back. They were virtually his first words. She’d worried so much, with all the rioting on TV, that some day he’d parrot back one of the new buzzwords instead of ‘mum’ or ‘dad’. As it was, he’d gone for ‘Hal’: at least her son knows who to look out for, she supposes. She looks pleadingly at her husband.

‘Can’t we leave this city?’ She’s asked too many times recently, with one eye on the street outside, the one she barely feels safe to tread any more.

‘My life is here,’ Henry states. He operates on the illegal side of the vaguely defined line between legality and crime, taking advantage of the cracks in the system, and this new atmosphere has given him opportunities beyond his wildest dreams.

‘What about Hal?’ she argues desperately, looking down at her son with his cherub-like curls. Henry stands, having given his family enough of his presence.

‘He’ll have London running through his veins.’ She shakes her head.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

 

**1.**

 

‘And tell your little friends that if another of you cunts think you’re big and smart enough to mess with me, you won’t fucking live to regret it,’ snarls Hal. His addressee, a thirty-something bald guy with a twitchy eye, edges towards the exit. From where Poins is loitering by the door, he can see huge sweat patches on the man’s cheap polo shirt. It’s an unsavoury sight. He casts his eyes over to Hal, sees the barely perceptible nod and follows the man out the door.

This won’t be a messy one. Poins watches, eyes sharp like a fox, then just as the man goes to step at the top of the stairs, he casually sticks out one booted foot and lets gravity do the rest. Tumble, tumble, crunch.

He strolls back into Hal’s office, checking his boots for new scuff marks as he goes. ‘He had a fall,’ Poins states nonchalantly, making his way to the desk. Hal, sitting behind it, shakes his head regretfully.

‘Tragic.’

Poins perches himself on the faded wood. Despite their best efforts, the office still looks like part of the rundown office block they commandeered for their purpose. He’s the only person who is able to take such a seat: anybody else would have been cursed into oblivion whilst Hal waited for Poins to smack them in the face. Instead, Hal merely mutters ‘Get your arse off my desk’ and looks down at his laptop.

‘Make me,’ smirks Poins, laughing and running his fingers over a metal paperweight he knows is there in case of emergencies, rather than to care for the paper. Hal grabs him by his leather jacket, fingers creeping towards his collarbone, and pull him forward.

‘You fucker,’ he mutters, curling the ends of his lips up in pride.

-

Darkness has settled like a great beast over the skyline. For many, it heralds the danger of the night, time to bolt the door and pray for safety in this city run by a different kind of law: the rival crime syndicates that oozed out of the gutters and the back alleys when nobody else could stop the rioting. Twenty years on, survival is no joke. For Poins, tonight, the darkness is his safety, his cover. Business calls.

The target’s no big fish, just some scrawny chancer who took a bit too much for himself when delivering goods for Hal. The guy’s so pathetic he’s not even bothered to lock the door to his dingy flat, although Poins kicks it down anyway. Inside, he spots the guy scrambling up from a mattress on the floor, wearing only pants and a dirty t-shirt. His movements are slow and clumsy. Poins strolls over, taking no hurry.

‘Lovely home you have,’ he says conversationally as he kicks the other guy back down onto the mattress.

‘Please…’ 

Poins kicks again. 

‘Please what? Please don’t steal from your boss? Please don’t be a pathetic little cockroach? Please remember who fucking looks after you?’ His victim flails around, hitting Poins on the legs desperately, before summoning what Poins is assumes is the guy's entire quota of courage to spit on his boot.

‘You’d know about being looked after, wouldn’t you, you little cocksucker?’ the guy jeers, trying to use the time to knock Poins off his feet. Instead, he gets a kick to the head for his wisecrack, which sends him rolling onto the floor. Poins places his boot, the one with saliva dripping off its toe, on top of the guy’s chest and bends down.

‘Isn’t it lucky that he gave me free reign over what I do to you?’ Poins smiles, then throws a punch at his head. ‘Isn’t it lucky I told you that after you angered me, not before?’ He pulls the guy up by his t-shirt and shoves him hard against the wall. ‘Isn’t it lucky none of your windows are big enough to throw you out of?’

Poins lets go off the guy, who sags down the wall slowly, flinching involuntarily. There’s no point Poins wasting his time here. He aims a couple more punches, watching blood drip down the mouthy fucker’s face. That should do, he thinks, as he brushes his dark hair out of his eyes.

‘Sort out your loyalties, or next time I’ll find a bigger window and we can see who’d win in a fight, you or gravity.’ He wipes his boot on the grimy mattress and makes his way out the door, pausing on the way to check his jacket in the mirror he’s surprised the guy owns. It’s real leather; he doesn’t want it ruined.

-

Hal taps his fingers on his desk and waits for Poins to return. You can’t fuss, not when you’re an up and coming crime boss with a powerful reputation, but if he could, he would. He’d worry every time Poins went out to deal with someone on Hal’s behalf. He’d picture a bunch of thugs, probably from the Mortimer lot or maybe just some crazies who still haven’t grasped how the streets work now, beating the shit out of the other guy, who’s tough but not that tough. Blood and dirt mixing on the concrete. Nobody daring to go near him, nobody daring to help, because they know who he works for and who they’d be declaring their allegiance to.

‘Filthy piece of shit, he was.’ Hal’s head jerks up at the voice. Standing in the doorway is Poins, looking tired and sweaty and pleased with himself. Automatically, Hal’s eyes dart down his frame, checking. He’s fine. ‘But he should've listened. If not, he’s even thicker than he looks.’

‘Good.’ Hal stands, his white jeans and shirt a direct contrast to Poins’ dark leather and denim. They do it on purpose, because symbolism is one of the keys to power. The vision in white shouts out commands, his shadow enforces his rule. Others do too, of course, but Poins is the best. You need people you can trust when you don’t get your hands dirty yourself.

He walks across the floor and, satisfied nobody else can see them, runs a finger along Poins’ forehead. ‘You’ve got blood on you,’ he mutters, lifting his hand to gaze at the violent red. It brings back the usual memories. He’s in a confessional mood. ‘As a kid, I used to draw people, beaten up and bleeding. Then my mum got shot and I stopped, because I could never recreate that vivid shade with my pens.’

‘And then you got people to do the beating up for you,’ Poins says. ‘Graduated from pens to people.’

‘Well, you have to admit it’s more effective at getting stuff done,’ he grins. This light side to Hal is a side which was almost ripped away from him aged seven when he saw his mother fall to the ground beside him, hit by an accidental bullet. It didn’t feel very accidental to him. He started learning to toughen up from that day, as London morphed around him into the city it is today, ruled by violence and the stench of illegality. Power is better than friends, he discovered. Then, at seventeen, he met someone who could help him with both. This newcomer was little with a vicious glint in his eye and a disinclination to talk about himself, recently arrived in the city and in need of an expert guide. Hal took on the role, in return for company and someone who was handy in a fight and getting ever better at it.

Slipping into the space his father’s death left at twenty four was just the next step up, but few realised how much he needed his only friend. His shadow. Hal’s violent side, cast in the mold of a skinny boy from a shitty little town where nothing ever happened.

-

‘Falstaff’s here,’ calls out Spike from the corridor. Hal’s got no idea if Spike is his real name or not: nobody has full names any more, so he’s just Hal and Poins has no first name and neither does Falstaff, who enters moments later. He’s a huge man, seeming even larger from Hal's vantage point in his customary spot behind his desk, although Falstaff’s bulk affords him little power. Part of the old guard, those who like Henry saw opportunities when everyone else saw fear and destruction, but not a successful part of it. He’s a fly there’s not even any point Hal trying to swat away any more, and besides, Hal has a strange liking for him.

‘Hal, how are you?’ booms the man. Hal sees the grease in his hair shine in the electric light.

‘Busy as ever. You want something?’ Hal says curtly. He can hear tapping: the sound of Poins in the next room, door slightly ajar and his ears pricked in case Hal needs him. If he gets too restless, he might come out here and take offense at one of Falstaff’s jokes. Hal would prefer to avoid that: Falstaff has useful knowledge and contacts, which might be less useful if he’s beaten into a coma.

‘Just got word that someone was after you, thought I’d warn you,’ Falstaff offers, but Hal waits for the catch. ‘And I’ve been finding myself in a spot of trouble with money, you know, nothing too big, but nobody wants my services any more.’

‘Because you’re fat and lazy and want money for nothing,’ Poins states, wandering out of the other room. Hal throws him a warning look, but he knows it’s not necessary: Poins’ entire body is screaming control, rather than ‘liable to fly off the rails’. It is not difficult for Hal to read that.

‘Look,’ Hal interjects, before Falstaff has much time to take offense. ‘Go demand Vincy gives me the money he owes me, and you’ll get a cut. But fuck it up or try to rip me off, and Poins will cut your throat before you can say “sorry”.’ 

Falstaff nods.

‘Thank you Hal, thank you,’ he oozes, turning to leave.

‘Oh, and Falstaff? Don’t bother with the warnings. Everybody’s fucking after me.’ Hal watches him walk out, probably already scheming how to not do the job and still get the cash. Poins is loitering near his desk, clearly waiting for something. ‘And what do you want?’ Hal asks, but in a different tone.

‘You busy?’ Hal knows what that question is really asking. He grins.

‘Not for you.’ He winks. ‘Shut the fucking door.’

 

**2.**

 

Cocky bastard, Poins thinks as Hotspur strides into Hal’s office, all solid build and gruff voice. It’s his third visit and Hotspur is, regardless of his sweet talk, known to be loyal to the Mortimer lot. He practically exudes ambition. Still, Hal’s giving him a chance and Poins may voice his concerns when nobody else is around, but in the face of the enemy, he’s fine to be part of a united front. He’s mostly around to make sure the guy doesn’t attack Hal, anyway.

‘Does your puppy really need to be here?’ protests Hotspur once they’ve exchanged greetings, glancing towards Poins disdainfully.

‘He stays,’ Hal says resolutely. Because I trust him and not you is left unsaid. As the two talk, Poins considers whether any of these people who give him dirty looks when they enter know what he’d do for Hal, how far he’d go. He thinks Hal knows: it’s the reason Hal always has to hide his shaking hands when he sends Poins to deal with threats against him, has to look Poins straight in the eye and check he did nothing stupid. The difficulty of caring about someone in a world where even the pavements seem to be snapping at your heels hungrily.

Poins doesn’t need to listen, because the wafts of conversation he hears give him enough details. Hotspur suggests opportunities to Hal, makes it sound like he’s uncertain whose side he’s on, and Hal counters cautiously, pushing against the charming tone and offers of alliance. Each meeting, their battle of words heats up a notch. Eventually, either Hal will be deceived and Hotspur will win (which is Poins’ personal prophecy if they don’t do anything about him), or there will be some kind of shady connection formed. Poins doesn’t see this as likely. Mortimer doesn’t seem the type to let people go so easily. He tells Hal this, but Hal just nods and warns him not to do anything to Hotspur. He wonders if his thoughts were that loud.

-

Today Hal’s out on the streets, checking out a little coke dealing operation that Hotspur had mentioned would be free for the taking. Poins lurks behind him, not trusting this reconnaissance trip to go any way but badly. Five meetings with Hotspur have given them no definite indication of what the guy’s after. They don’t march in, as their informant had suggested. They creep and watch and when the first knife flashes, Poins is ready. Hal steps back. One stabbed with his own blade, the other two shot before they could cause trouble. Poins wipes his hands on his jeans and grins at Hal.

‘It’s ready for you, your majesty.’

-

‘He wasn’t handing it to me on a plate, we knew there’d be trouble,’ Hal argues, leaning against his desk as Poins paces the floor.

‘He’s trying to get you fucking killed,’ Poins rages back, ‘so he can take over everything you’ve worked for.’

‘Well, it’s lucky you won’t let that happen then, isn’t it?’ A vital truth of their dynamic, and Hal knows it well. He’s seen the scars etched into Poins’ skin from times he’s protected Hal or Hal’s interests. Too many years; Poins can’t be perfect every time, but he tries.

‘He’s tricky, you can’t underestimate him,’ Poins says adamantly, clearly not satisfied with Hal’s faith in him. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’

‘I won’t if you won’t,’ says Hal in return. It’s both a joke and not one at all. Hal doesn’t believe either of them could live without the other any more. It’s fucking terrifying, so he tries not to think about it. Poins stops pacing and glares at him.

‘Seriously, Hal. You think you’re invincible, but you’re not.’

‘And you’ve such a fucking disregard for your life that you’ll risk it for me constantly.’ Maybe a bit harsh, but it’s true, and their arguments always turn like this, boiling down to the fact that they live dangerously and can’t control it.

‘That’s what I do,’ snarls Poins and storms out. Hal’s left wondering what he’s done to deserve such loyalty.

-

A week later and Poins feels no better about the situation. He wishes Hal took the danger of fraternising with someone from a rival side more seriously, hadn’t grown up to think the city would protect him from its inhabitants. Hal’s not exactly naive, but since the age of seven he's believed that London owes him a debt. Poins, who ran away from home to the place where you could become anonymous if you knew how to fight, doesn’t have such an illusion: London is the foster parent who doesn’t love him as much as it does its own sons and daughters. It doesn’t matter. He found someone on the gloomy, graffitied streets, even if he didn’t quite get that longed-for anonymity. People know Hal, so they know him.

It’s four a.m. He can’t sleep. Poins walks out of Hal’s room, sparing a glance at the vulnerable sleeping figure he’s leaving behind and tucking a gun into his pyjama waistband. It pays to be careful. He lights a cigarette and strolls down the stairwell. Both him and Hal have rooms on the top floor, although Poins doesn’t often sleep in his: someone’s got to watch out for Hal, he’d claim. The more you are shown to care, the more you can lose. He steps out into the night air, having nodded at Spike, awake near the locked front door. There’s always someone awake, watching out or drinking or taking something they’d rush to hide if Hal walked in.

Nicotine floods his brain, steadying his nerves somewhat. He’d feel even better if he could just land the odd punch on Hotspur’s smarmy face, if nothing else. Show him not to try and deceive them if he values his pretty boy looks. However, Poins listens to Hal, so he won’t. It can’t hurt though, his brain suggests as he goes back inside, to take a little trip over to Hotspur’s stomping ground, see what he’s up to.

Poins slides the cold metal of his gun out from where it was lodged against his hip, places it down on the side table within his reach and slips back into the spot in the bed he vacated. Can’t hurt at all, he thinks vaguely as he finally drifts off to sleep. Can’t hurt at all.

-

Broad daylight. He’s got a couple of guys with him, but Poins hasn’t told Hal where he’s going. Careful avoidance of the truth. Once this was a busy shopping street, full of department stores and expensive chains; not any longer. Now it is watched territory. Poins is close enough to the heart of the Mortimer operation to know that his face won’t be welcome. They all see him as Hal’s human Rottweiler and they’d love a chance to leave the new crown prince of crime without his violent sidekick.

Beside him, Toby grinds to a halt. Poins has already spotted the threat: figures approaching from down the road, too far away to see who. He strides on. There’s no point in backing down now. As luck would have it, he sees the faces of some of Hotspur’s known pals (well, more like accomplices, but the guy’s not a bank robber) come into view.

‘You lot seem lost,’ hollers one of them, a lanky guy with skin like a ghost and red hair. Another, dark skin and equally tall, laughs and points at Poins.

‘Look, it’s the wildcat himself. Gonna scratch us on behalf of your weakling boss?’

‘Piss off,’ he snaps. It’s an unwritten rule that you leave anybody alone that you don’t have a reason to be hurting, unless you want trouble. He doesn’t want trouble, not yet.

‘Lost your courage?’ taunts the first one. ‘Even with these two-’ He casts his eye over Poins’ companions ‘-fine examples of your gang as backup?’

‘We’re not all as thick as you. I don’t have to fight everyone I see,’ he answers, hand already hovering over where his knife is concealed.

‘What a shame, we know someone who’d like to give you a run for your money.’ Poins can guess who they mean.

‘Boys, what’ve you found?’ Sure enough, it’s Hotspur, approaching from behind Poins with a swagger. ‘The scum of the city. Good work.’ He runs a finger along the shoulder of Poins’ leather jacket, looking down at him in disgust. Poins fights the urge to shiver at his touch and instead looks on defiantly.

‘I think that title’s already been given to you,’ Poins says, whilst internally he battles his desire to strike. ‘Playing your little game of deceit with Hal, ready to cut his throat and take everything he has.’

‘Well,’ Hotspur smirks, ‘I wouldn’t take you, you piece of shit, so not everything.’ He turns to his supporters. ‘Isn’t it sweet? The little dog’s come yapping after those he sees as a threat to his master.’

‘Oh fuck off.’

‘Nasty temper there. I’d say it’ll cause you trouble one day, but it won’t, because you won’t leave here alive.’ Poins knows it’s not a serious threat, that the worst that should happen will be some pathetic scuffle before Hotspur flees and he goes home to admit to Hal where he went, but something in head tells him this is his chance. If he fights now, he can show that they’re a force to be reckoned with, him and Hal and everyone who works for them. His temper’s risen anyway, his blood is pumping, and now he has a reason, an excuse. This will protect Hal.

-

A flash of silver. No hesitation. Accurate jab straight into the guts. Again. Again. Blood everywhere. _It was self defence, honest._ Couldn’t stop if he tried. He’s only doing his job. A shove to the floor, a kick to check he won’t get back up. _Jacket’s fucking ruined now._ It wasn’t meant to go like this, but he’s not unhappy with the outcome. The word ‘go’ floats into his head. Nothing is real. Pulling at his arm, so he follows, running as the adrenaline lifts him forward, ahead of the other two. Coming back into focus. The world is calm, but his head’s not. Running like he’s being chased by the hounds of Hell. Poins has to run, because back there, lying in the road with blood pooling by his side and his final breath mere moments away, is the one man he was told not to kill.

 

**3.**

 

‘Oh my fucking god,’ mutters Hal, head in his hands. He’s been doing this for the last half hour, ever since he found out what had happened. Poins stands on the other side of his desk, the only person brave enough to stay in the same room as Hal, which is impressive seeing as he’s the one who caused this. ‘They’re gonna come after us. We can’t take out all their people, it’d be impossible. Maybe a bargain…’ Hal looks up. Poins is staring back at him, has been since he came in. ‘Couldn’t you just have fucking listened to me?’

Poins bristles visibly. ‘He threatened my life, what the fuck was I meant to do?’ Hal, however, has picked up a note of something else, even in his agitated state.

‘That’s not why you did it,’ he states. His tone is certain, bitter. ‘You waited for the excuse, but you did it for me.’ He looks down. ‘You know I can’t thank you for it.’

‘I never ask you to.’ Poins turns and walks towards the door. ‘I should go...go and warn the others what might happen.’ An impossible task, because neither of them really know of course.

‘Poins,’ Hal says quietly before he’s gone. ‘Watch out. Please.’

-

This is such a mess, Poins thinks as he reaches for the bottle of vodka. He’s restless: Hal will barely allow him out, keeps making up excuses why he must stay in. Poins has already made his knuckles bleed punching a wall, when he found out that Toby had been shot in the head. He wanted to go out and get retribution, but Hal said no; they ended up fucking desperately in a back room instead. Everyone is tense, ready for an attack, but Hal’s focused on keeping his growing empire on track and won’t let them start an all-out war, opting to give them speeches explaining why whenever anyone questions it. Despite itching to drive a knife into somebody, Poins agrees with his choice.

Hal marches in and grabs the bottle off him, then takes a long drink. ‘Not going well?’ Poins asks, knowing Hal’s been running around the building madly all day, trying to sort out different loose ends without getting another report of someone injured or killed.

‘Let’s just say the Mortimer lot don’t seem happy. They’re doing anything they can to upset my business, if going after my people wasn’t enough.’ Business is an interesting term for what Hal does.

Poins grabs the bottle back and takes a swig, coughing at the taste of the cheap alcohol. Soon they’re passing it back and forth, bitching about everyone in between gulps.

‘You can’t get drunk, you’ve got shit to do,’ points out Poins.

‘I think the shit wouldn’t go any worse if I did it whilst fucking drunk. Besides, had to keep you company.’ Poins smiles at that, whilst Hal fiddles with a buckle on the new white leather jacket he’d insisted on getting Poins. It was the closest he’d get to a thank you, and an apology for demanding him to stay out of trouble. How they deal with caring too much: Hal is possessive; Poins kills people. It’s no more fucked up than the rest of the city.

-

It’s a bad morning already and Poins isn’t out of bed yet. He spent the previous day arguing with Hal about why he couldn’t just go and see how many of the fuckers he could take out with a semi-automatic, then neither could sleep so they just sat awake smoking and not wanting to either talk or leave the other’s side, and at five a.m. Hal got a call saying Spike was dead, ambushed when he stepped outside for a fag. Hal’s gone now, off to try and do something about the whole thing, and Poins is lying around imagining a universe where he could sleep and wasn’t likely to get murdered if he loiters for a split second too long on the street.

Eventually, he throws on clothes and runs a toothbrush round his mouth, then wanders down the grey flights of stairs to see how the place is holding up. Falstaff’s sitting on a sofa Poins didn’t even know they had, like he can conjure laziness aids out of thin air.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I could ask the same,’ says Falstaff. ‘Not out doing anything useful?’ Poins can see the stains on his clothes from the man’s breakfast and it’s repulsive.

‘Why, do you have a suggestion, or just out of money?’ This is why it’s better to talk to Falstaff when Hal’s around: Poins has approximately zero patience with him.

‘I got word of how to find one of Hotspur’s old followers, alone and an easy target. Thought it might be useful.’

‘Hal’s not interested in that,’ Poins states disdainfully, then pauses and ponders over the opportunity. ‘I, on the other hand…’

‘Want me to tell you where to go?’ Falstaff offers eagerly, because he knows Poins has enough influence with Hal to get Falstaff what he wants.

‘No, I want you to fucking show me, you lazy shit. Anyway,’ Poins grins maliciously, ‘I’m not meant to go anywhere alone. Hal’s orders. You’ll have to come.’

-

When Hal first catches a glimpse of Poins lying on the sofa, some guy trying to patch up the huge gash in his leg whilst blood soaks into the upholstery, he nearly flips his shit right there and then. Instead, having had the phone call to warn him what happened and therefore had time to calm down enough not to want to wring Falstaff’s neck instantly, he strides over to Poins’ side, calling out for Holly as he goes. As well as being one of their top shots, she actually knows a fucking thing about medicine, unlike the other idiots.

‘You never listen,’ he mutters once he’s crouched down, his own face near Poins’ pale one, close enough to see the wince of pain that the guy’s trying valiantly to hide.

‘I tried,’ Poins gets out through gritted teeth, as Holly starts to clean his injury. ‘But it was too good an opportunity to miss. I can’t sit around waiting until everyone else is dead.’

‘So instead you’ll risk it being you?’ Hal wants to scream about how he can’t accept that, but there’s too many people around. They can’t see their boss lose it because somebody got stabbed in the leg.

‘Hal, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.’ That gives him no comfort. He did this: he took that boy with the hardened look in his eye and gave him the motivation to hone his skills, gave him a reason (however misplaced) to fight. To fight for. His enemies may call Hal a coward, but he’s the one who has to take the leap and twist lost boys into bundles of violence and self-loathing. Twenty five years old and there’s enough blood on his hands to daube across a canvas and create a piece of art to rival those at the old galleries, before they were looted and defaced and set alight. The redefinition of beauty.

Agitated, Hal paces around, shouting down his phone and occasionally throwing things across the room. Poins is half-asleep, caught in a cloud of tiredness and whatever drugs Holly found to give him but unwilling to miss out on what Hal will do next. This is problematic, because Hal has to go out soon, and if Poins finds out where, he’ll be hobbling off the sofa to follow him or stop him. Hal watches over him like the guardian angel he’s never quite been able to be. Finally, it seems safe to leave. He bends over and presses his lips to Poins’ forehead, quickly and silently. It’s not certain he’ll return. Hal has to go and see Mortimer.

-

The sun is setting over London and Hal waits in the grimy alley just as he was requested. It’s a desperate act, accepting the need for whatever talk this’ll be, but he is desperate. Too many of his people are dead and he’s got nobody to replace them. There's nobody left: everyone fled long ago, those who weren't cut out for the violence and the side-taking. The darkness of the city was once a blessing to Hal, but now it is his enemy: he can’t tell who’s lurking beyond the light. At his end of the alley, some of his minions wait, fingers on triggers and eyes darting everywhere. This is just supposed to be a meeting.

A crunch of boots and then she rounds the corner, illuminated by the dying embers of the day. Kate Mortimer (everyone knows _her_ full name), head of the most powerful crime syndicate in this city of twisted rules. She has long dark hair and looks like she wants to crush Hal under her steel-toe caps and be done with this mess. She doesn’t, though. Instead, she strides down the alley towards him, leaving her backup at the opposite end to his. She stops a couple of metres from him and lights a cigarette.

‘You’ve become a problem,’ she says finally. ‘Enough of one for me to personally deal with you. Some might congratulate you for that.’

He glares back at her. Neither can show fear, of course. They’re dueling partners, facing off politely as a cover up for everything else.

‘And what is it that you want?’ he asks, straightening the white tie he put on specially.

‘A sacrifice. No, not your life, that’d be boring.’ She smiles widely, accenting the scarlet lipstick Hal assumes is to show people that she knows full well that she’s a woman, but that won’t stop her ripping them apart if they cross her. ‘I’m going to give you a choice. You have to lose something, as payment for what your little friend did, but I’ll let you pick.’

‘Out of what?’ He’s trying hard to keep his voice casual and steady.

‘Drum roll please.’ She takes a drag of her cigarette. ‘Option one: the, shall we say, ‘business empire’ that you’re so protective of. All of it, to me. You can scurry off to some new part of town and try to make something out of nothing. It’ll be fun.’ A pause, one she revels in. ‘And option two: you keep the money and the power, you give up the thing closest to your heart.’

‘No,’ Hal mutters involuntarily. This is his own fault. Weakness.

‘That’s right, I know who you’re so protective of. The only person who could fuck up your position so much and still you let him continue, still you sit crying when he gets hurt. Most of these idiots don’t see how important he is to you, but I do. How do you think I got here? I am the best.’

He wants to make a joke about modesty, but it doesn’t seem like the time. Also, it’s hard to deny that she might well be the best.

‘You give him to me,’ she continues, ‘and I’ll let you continue as you were. Of course, I can’t guarantee how well we’ll look after him, but we’ll try our best.’ Another smile. Hal feels sick. How did she know, he panics, how did she know this was the one decision he couldn’t make? That he harbours a desperate fear of having to choose to give up everything for Poins in the way that the guy would do without hesitation for him. She's too fucking good, or he was too fucking foolish.

It only takes him a moment to compose himself, though. A plan forms at the back of his mind, as risky as any but worth a shot. Mortimer’s waiting, stubbing out her cigarette on the brick wall beside them. He goes to speak, wetting his lips to ensure words will come out.

‘You can have him. You can have Poins.’

 

**4.**

 

Hal rushes back so quickly his words are still hovering in the air when he bursts through the door and stops, panting frantically, in front of the still-sleeping Poins. The moment’s hesitation of ‘maybe I could hide him’ is replaced by ‘he needs to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible’ and he shakes the injured guy awake, jabbering his name repeatedly. Poins opens his eyes and winces in pain.

‘You’ve gotta get out of here,’ Hal urges hurriedly, his words merging into one sound.

‘Wha-?’ Poins responds, then jolts awake as he processes Hal’s words. ‘What happened?’

‘You’ve just got to go, it’s not safe.’

‘But why? What’s new? It was fine before.’ Poins insists. Hal wonders what the hell his definition of ‘fine’ is.

‘Don’t argue. Just go. It’s not safe for you.’ He can’t say it. He can’t admit what he’s done. Trying so hard to keep both, because he’s greedy and terrified.

‘I can barely walk,’ Poins argues, but he’s starting to get up, knuckles going white as he grips onto the arm of the sofa. Hal grabs him, helps him up. It’s a bad choice: now he doesn’t want to let go. Poins is on his feet and walking, fist clenched and teeth gritted. Why do you listen to me now, Hal wants to scream. Why not before?

‘Just don’t let them get you,’ whispers Hal, fighting ferociously in his brain against the instinct to go to, to just run away with Poins and not look back. He can’t. He’s doing all of this to keep his power. He knows no other life.

Poins stares straight into his eyes, confused and panicked and angry. ‘But why?’ Hal shakes his head. There aren’t words to describe it. He can’t look into that face any more.

He steps forward, summoning his self-control, and pulls Poins in for a messy kiss, then steps back and looks down.

‘Just make it. Okay? Like you always fucking do.’

‘Hal…’

‘You’ve got to go.’ 

Hal watches as Poins gives up hope, turns and limps out of the door, out of the building, out, out, out. He’s gone. There aren’t the beginnings of tears in Hal’s eyes, of course not. It’s time to get things sorted out. There must be someone to go and shout at, after all.

_You’ve got to go, because I told them they could have you. I sacrificed you. I sacrificed you because I couldn’t give up my entire life for you, the way you’d do for me._

-

Fear can make people do extraordinary things. Great feats of strength or ingenuity they’d never have imagined they could do otherwise. Fear can also be a weakness. It can make you stupid, foolish. Sometimes it can make the best people forget the obvious. Like the fact that you don’t get a head start. That when people are after you, they don’t keep a safe distance away: they lurk in the shadows and the gutters, waiting for that mistake you’re always going to make. Mistakes like sending out an injured guy into a city full of people who want to kill him, maybe overestimating his skill or underestimating his pain. Or even, forgetting that everyone is human. Forgetting that sometimes, survival has a high price.

-

Poins makes it four streets away before he collapses against a wall. The pain in his leg is pretty bad, but it’s another pain that’s more overwhelming. His survival instinct yells at him to move, keep going despite everything, but he has no idea where to go, barely awake from his drugged sleep. He takes out his knife, ready to defend himself against only the most inept attacks. He doesn’t even know who he’s defending himself against; he gets the feeling that neither side wants him now, or wants him alive. Seconds tick away. Time to tell a story. The first time he killed someone, getting caught on the arm with a knife and Hal fussing ridiculously, making him promise to be more careful. I promise, Poins had said. They’d never promised anything else. There wasn’t any point in lying.

Voices. He knows they’ve found him. He closes his eyes and waits, just about still able to feel the ghostly pressure of Hal’s lips on his. He expects them to kill him there and then. For once, he’s the naive one.

-

Word doesn’t need to travel fast. Hal gets a text (not even a fucking phone call) and sees how he failed.

_Nice try. We’ve got him now and I’m not feeling quite so hospitable. Listen out tonight - might hear his screams.  
Mortimer x _

Hal throws the phone against the wall and stalks off upstairs. Time to prove he learnt a thing or two from his shadow.

-

The first time Hal stabs the knife he’s taken from Poins’ room into the guy’s soft flesh, it feels like he’s cut some piece of string inside himself. The second time, he feels nothing. The third is enough to get the man to splutter out where they’re keeping Poins. Hal pulls the knife out in disgust and kicks the guy as he falls to the floor. There are specks of blood on his white outfit; even now, he can’t escape the symbolism.

This is all his fault, and that knowledge is enough to drive him forward. The building he was directed to has one guy guarding outside and no more: people don’t tend to ambush the Mortimer lot, not if they want to live. He thinks of Kate Mortimer, steely look and ruthlessness, and it is clear why. Hal slides the knife in as he covers the guy’s mouth, deciding that the second was slightly easier than the first. It’s ridiculous: all those people he’s chosen to die, directly or indirectly, and this is only his second real kill, if the first guy was actually dead. Hal doesn’t know. There wasn’t time to find out. He wonders if this adrenaline is forever pumping through Poins’ veins. If so, he can see why the guy gets restless.

The building is dark and quiet, with only the faint murmur of talking in a far off room. Hal swaps the knife for a gun stolen from the second guy, his hand trembling even as he holds it. He has to keep remembering why he’s doing this. A man appears and he squeezes the trigger instinctively, getting a lucky shot in the chest. It’s not quite real, too similar to nightmares he’s had, except that then the target he hits is his mother usually (once it was Poins, and he’d awoken frantically digging his fingers into the other guy’s arm, reminding himself that it didn’t actually happen). Who ever heard of a criminal boss who can’t shoot a gun, he berates himself as he moves on. He expects a surge of people now that there’s been a gunshot, but only one other person appears, who he takes out with another lucky shot. Beginner’s luck, maybe.

The next guy he sees, he takes the knife out again, and after a growled threat not to shout, asks where Poins is. The guy stammers out directions and Hal slits his throat anyway. He’s not taking chances. He winds a couple of corridors and up some stairs, running now because noise obviously isn’t an issue. Quickly, not really thinking, he throws open the door he was told was the correct one. Miraculously, there’s nobody shooting at him.

Tied to a chair in the centre of the room with a bleeding face is Poins. His head jolts up as the door slams open and his ungagged mouth gapes.

‘What the fuck?’ he rasps. He looks like shit.

Hal grins involuntarily, aware he must look a fucking state with all the blood, and hurries over to Poins.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Hal, they’ll fucking kill you.’

‘And you, why do you think I’m here?’ He’s pulling at the cords tying Poins’ wrists together, too shaky to do it properly first time.

‘We won’t get out alive.’ Finally, he’s got Poins’ wrists free. He slides him gently off the chair and sits down next to him.

‘Why do you think I expected to?’ Hal asks, looking at him straight in the face.

‘What?’

‘I realised, oh, not long after I turned up that I wasn’t getting back out of here. I tried the daring rescue, but all I did was cause a lot of noise. They’ll be waiting outside now.’ Poins suddenly reaches out and touches Hal’s face.

‘Hal, you’ve got blood on you.’

‘I know,’ he mutters back softly.

‘No, Hal, you’ve got fucking blood on you. You, you…’ He trails off. Hal pulls the knife out to show him. Poins looks at him questioningly. ‘For me? You shouldn’t have.’ They laugh. They laugh because this is the fucking ridiculous way they show affection, they laugh because they have no hope, they laugh because Hal’s outfit is ruined.

‘We were never going to get out of this,’ Hal reasons as they sit, leaning on each other for support. ‘There’s always more danger. It’s not like we could retire to the fucking country.’ They laugh hysterically, barely able to breathe, then Hal turns and rests his forehead against Poins’. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’

‘She told you?’

‘Yeah,’ Poins admits in a whisper. ‘I’m fucking sorry too. I didn’t listen.’

‘Oh well. We’re here now.’ 

A pause, then Poins mutters, ‘Thanks for coming to rescue me.’

‘Thanks for always beating the shit out of anyone who might've raised a hand against me.’ More laughter. Hal could never have predicted that waiting to die would be so hilarious.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, obviously intended for them to hear. Poins goes to speak, but Hal cuts him off.

‘Don’t fucking say it, okay?’

The door swings open. There’s Mortimer and a load of other people, all with guns out.

‘Isn’t this touching?’ she remarks, then the gunshots ring out.

-

Kate Mortimer stands in her office and looks down at the bloody knife she retrieved from the floor. Funny how well Hal fell for that trick, she thinks. She didn’t expect him to give up so easily. Then again, she didn’t expect her own mercy either: she did, after all, wait until they’d finished their little moment before marching in. She respects how they found something to live and die for in this fucked up city that wasn’t money or power. Survival is harsh. She picks up the knife and sticks it on a shelf. Maybe none of them are meant to live very long.


End file.
